


Of All The Bars In All The World

by MsJones



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erotica, F/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, Soppy Ending, alleyway naughtiness, bereavement, why Altaïr hates Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsJones/pseuds/MsJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Time, Gentlemen!' Altaïr meets the lusty bar mistress once again, and finds out her terrible, heartbreaking secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Meet Again, Bel

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own or profit from Assassin’s Creed or any relevant characters, which remain the property of Ubisoft.

Jumping into the Assassin's Bureau in Jerusalem, Altaïr mentally prepared himself for another showdown with Malik. _The spiteful bastard had better keep his mouth shut today!_   he thought bitterly. Ever since the whole business in Solomon's Temple, the place had made him edgy, though his last visit had been fairly memorable. He resolved to avoid any taverns in the near future.

“Ah, the wanderer returns,” Malik greeted him sardonically. “And what brings you to Jerusalem on this fine day?”

Altaïr knew that Malik was fully aware of what he was doing in Jerusalem. He was charged with the task of ridding Jerusalem of the feared, tyrannical executioner Majd Addin. “I come to continue the work of Al Mualim,” he answered bluntly.

“I know that,” Malik answered with a smirk. “I just thought you had something else to do. Shall we say... a personal mission?” He eyed Altaïr questioningly.

Altaïr frowned, his brow even more furrowed. “What do you mean by that, Malik?” he asked.

“Well...” Malik began evasively, a big smirk on his face. “This fell into my hands, and I was asked to make sure it made it into _your_ hands.” He held out a small, dainty envelope, with the name _Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad_ unmistakeably printed on it. There was no question that it was certainly for him. He pulled at his cowl, trying to hide his face, avoiding Malik's eye, as he was blushing. “Bel,” he muttered under his breath.

Malik grinned. He was enjoying this, watching Altaïr squirm. It did not quite make up for Kadar's death, or his painful and permanent injury, in fact nothing would ever do that, but knowing that this ridiculous man was flustered, or in some way embarrassed by this little note, was fun nonetheless. “What was that?” he asked, his keen ears picking up Altaïr's mumblings.

“Nothing...” Altaïr growled in reply, tearing open the little pink envelope, that smelled overpoweringly like roses. He wrinkled his nose at the stench; what was it with women and covering notes in rotten, cheap perfumes? He sensed Malik staring at him intently, his elbow on the counter, resting his chin on his hand. This was going to be amusing, at least for him.

Sighing and shaking his head, feeling his handsome cheeks flush scarlet, he unfolded the letter within:

_My dear darling Altaïr,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I had to write this to you, because, my love, my feelings are like a swollen underground river; they run so deep, and could burst at any given moment._ (at this point Altaïr put a hand to his face, despairing at the melodrama.)

_I have not been able to stop thinking of you since that day we met. You were looking so stressed and angry, I feared you would start a fight. Did I help to calm those feelings within you? I felt your eyes upon me, and I knew what you were looking for. A woman always knows._

_What we shared was so blissful, so passionate; I swear to you I have never felt feelings like it before, or since, and I am sorry to say that, as patient and understanding a man my husband is, since you came into my life, Altaïr, he has not been able to satisfy me. I feel so ashamed, and to tell him what the matter is would be to admit my guilt. I cannot do that, as I am sure you are aware why._

_So I ask you this: please, please, return to me, as soon as you receive this. I have entrusted this note to a very nice gentleman who says he knows you well, so I feel confident that you will be in possession of my letter soon._

_I long to see you again, my love, for I do believe that I have fallen for you. I beg of you to return to me. You know where I am._

_With all my love unto eternity,_

_Forever yours, Bel._

 

Refolding the paper and placing it back into the torn envelope, Altaïr uttered a curse word.

“What's wrong?” said the still smiling Malik, enjoying every moment of Altaïr's apparent humiliation. “Bad news?"

“You could say that,” Altaïr replied. “Tell me, Malik, have you been to any local taverns recently?”

Malik's smile grew wider. “Oho!” he exclaimed. “So it _is_ true! I didn't know you had it in you.”

“What exactly have you heard?” Altaïr asked, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice. “Who gave you this letter?”

Malik raised his hand, as if in defence. “Whoa there!” he said. Then his expression softened. “Yes, a woman did give this to me, after I decided to go for a quiet drink in one of the taverns. And it is such a fortunate coincidence I did, because she was quite a forlorn woman, mind, who supplied me with a free drink if I could get this letter to you.

“I assured her I could, as we are such _close_ comrades,” Malik continued in his usual sarcastic manner, “and then she asked me if I was a mercenary as well.”

“What did you tell her?” asked Altaïr, trying not to panic. He did not want her knowing that he was an Assassin, though she may well have guessed with the euphemism of 'mercenary' being thrown around like a child's toy.

“I assured her we were in close company,” Malik said reassuringly, “and that I could certainly deliver her letter to you.” He sighed. “And here we are. So, what do you intend to do?”

Altaïr couldn't help but wonder if Bel had tried something with Malik as well. Despite his horrific injury, he was a handsome young man, and she would definitely have shown interest in someone as quirky and, dare he say, witty, as Malik. “I really don't know, Malik,” he sighed. “She was nice but...” Altaïr paused. Should he tell Malik the big complication? He imagined the Bureau leader dissolving into laughter at the mention of it. Despite this, he decided to confide in the former Assassin. Taking a breath, he muttered, “She's married.”

Malik's eyes widened and his jaw hung open. “You were right when you said this was bad news!” he exclaimed. Instead of dissuading the Assassin from pursuing the matter, Malik started to grin. “This could be your most dangerous mission ever, Altaïr,” he said, brightly. “Go to her, and see how far she is willing to go.” He winked and smiled.

Altaïr groaned. _What have I got myself into?_ he thought. “How much do you know about what happened?” he asked the smiling dai.

“I know enough,” Malik replied enigmatically. “Now go, please. You will be doing this beautiful lady, and I daresay yourself, a disservice, by letting her down.”

“As you wish,” Altaïr sighed, tucking the love note into his pocket.

* * *

Reluctantly, Altaïr entered the infamous tavern, and started scanning the bar for Bel. He couldn't see her. Breathing a sigh of relief, he walked to the bar. He needed a drink.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the barman. “What can I get for you?”

“A drink,” growled Altaïr. “A large one.”

The barman smiled. “Perhaps this will please the gentleman.” He reached under the bar and produced a bottle of wine, and a glass. He opened the bottle with a flourish.

“That'll do,” Altaïr smiled, reaching for the coins in his pocket. “How much, sir?”

The barman smiled. “For you, sir, nothing,” he said jovially. When Altaïr poured himself a glass and handed back the bottle, the barman shook his head. “The whole bottle, sir!”

Altaïr raised his eyebrows. Why on Earth was everybody being so nice to him? “I'm going to need this,” he mumbled to himself, downing his first glass in one. He poured himself  another, wondering if Bel was going to turn up. He hoped he could finish this bottle before she arrived. All he wanted to do was tell her that he wasn't interested, their sexual encounter had been a mistake, a heat of the moment error of judgement, and that he was very sorry for leading her on. Taking a gulp of his second glass and feeling momentarily light-headed, he slammed it down. Groaning, he realised he couldn't drink that fast. If she turned up, he would have to take it like a man and deal with it. He put his head in his hands and leant on the bar. _I could do without this,_ he thought to himself.

“Having a bad day?” asked a sultry voice at his right shoulder.

Altaïr didn't even have to look up. He knew who it was. He wanted to bury his head in his hood and ignore her, but he knew he had to face up to things, even if it meant upsetting her in front of her friends, colleagues and customers. He slowly lifted his head up, turning to face who had accosted him.

Their eyes met, and instead of feeling guilt at having to reject her, a burning longing returned to him, starting in his loins. He smiled, his rehearsed speech melting into nothingness. During his lengthy absence from Jerusalem, Altaïr had quite forgotten how beautiful she was. Those piercing eyes seemed to stare into his soul, her flaxen, sun-kissed hair was so inviting to his fingers, and her voluptuous figure was concealed in a beautiful scarlet dress. He wanted to remove it, and make love to her right now, were there no people about. “Bel, my darling,” He couldn't fight the words that were escaping his throat. The only way to silence himself from saying anything further was to lean forward and kiss her. He placed a hand gently behind her neck, and their lips touched, hard and passionately. _This wine is dangerous stuff_ , he thought, blaming the alcohol for his sudden, irrational behaviour. _I'd better take it easy._

He finally broke away from Bel, his fingers stroking her soft wavy hair. “How have you been?” he asked her, without feigning interest.

Bel cast her beautiful, watery eyes downward and smiled weakly. “Lonely...” she sighed. She made a grab for his hand, and held it delicately. Altaïr did nothing to stop her.

“Lonely?” Altaïr was genuinely intrigued. “How so?” He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. He couldn't help himself, she was still stunning. Did she not have a husband to keep her warm at night, to protect her from the kidnapping Templars? “What of your husband?” All of a sudden, he feared the worst. Had her husband found out about her loose nature, up and left her because of it? Worse still, had he been murdered by the corrupt city guards, or conscripted into the foul war?

“I've just missed you, Altaïr,” she said, avoiding the Assassin's second question. “You're the only man who can...” She smiled. “Well... you got my note, didn't you? Otherwise you wouldn't be here.” She kissed the tip of his nose.

“Is your husband okay with this?” Altaïr asked, worried. He guessed he was unaware, that is, if they were still together.

Bel giggled. “He doesn't know, of course,” she said with a wicked smile.

Altaïr sighed, his guess being unfortunately accurate. “Oh, Bel,” he sighed, “you know that's so unfair on him, and on me as well. I don't know where I stand.”

“I'm not asking you to stand anywhere,” Bel said passionately. “I want you to lie down with me.” She leaned forward and kissed him again.

“You do realise that we can never be together,” Altaïr said to Bel, before making eye contact with the barman. “Can we get another glass here, please?” he asked, and the gentleman behind the bar obliged. “Not because of you and your husband,” he went on, filling up the new glass for Bel. “Here.” He pushed the wine towards her.

Bel picked up her glass, and took a sip. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Altaïr took a breath. “It's me, my darling.” he explained sadly. “I... am an Assassin. My work takes me everywhere and anywhere; I have no way of knowing where my next target is.” He grabbed Bel's free hand and squeezed. “That's why... I can't be with you.”

Bel merely smiled. “I already knew that,” she said, eyeing him with an insatiable desire. “Your friend, Malik told me.” She casually dipped a finger into her drink, and traced her finger on the rim.

Altaïr put a hand to his face. _Did that man ever shut up,_ he wondered.

“Despite all that,” Bel sighed, a besotted half-smile on her face. “I still want you.” Her finger, wet from the wine, traced down his chin; Altaïr felt some liquid dribble down his throat; it was a most erotic feeling. He sucked in his breath, and gazed at the complicated woman in front of him. Yes, it was true that he wanted her as well, but, she was married, forbidden territory. He had been there before, and the guilt and confusion had hit him like an armoured fist.

“Do you have any intention of finishing it with your husband?” Altaïr asked, assuming this husband existed.

Bel took another dainty sip of wine. “I don't see the point,” she purred. “You have already proved that you're... more than willing...” She glanced hopefully down at his crotch, “to make love to a married woman.”

Altaïr sighed, a protective hand down at his groin. She was right. Last time, he had willingly followed Bel to the 'back room', and lain with her. He could not deny it. She did not even manipulate him... well, maybe a little, with the wide-eyed, innocent, 'protect me' eyes. However, he could have resisted, and did not. This predicament was his own fault. If he succumbed to her again, it would be a vicious cycle he would be unwilling to break.

No.

He could not resist her. He longed to kiss her again; she tasted so good. He watched as Bel took a long, seductive draught of wine, exposing her beautiful, smooth neck, which did not betray her age. He thought fleetingly of placing his lips, his tongue, his teeth on the soft, pale skin of her throat. _Stop it, Altaïr,_ he thought to himself. _She is a married woman, you cannot do this again._ But she was so beautiful; being married couldn't change that.

Bel placed down her empty glass, and put her hand on Altaïr's arm. He could feel her soft touch through the white cotton of his uniform. “So,” she asked, “what do you want to do?” Her fingers reached his shoulder, stroking the strong leather of his knife holster.

Altaïr trembled, reaching for the wine bottle and gripping it tightly. Trying not to spill any with his shaky grasp, he poured a fresh glass of wine for the pair of them. “I think... finishing the wine would be a start,” He picked up his glass and took a swig.

“Good idea,” Bel agreed. “It might leave you more open...” She bent her knee and allowed her leg to stroke up against his, “to ideas.” She winked.

Altaïr swallowed hard. Why did he ever set foot in here again? Staying away would have saved him a lot of bother, a lot of temptation. However, he could not ignore a maiden's heartfelt letter. Cheesy as it had been, it had compelled him to return to her. She was clearly hurting, and her husband, caring and understanding as Bel may portray him, was lacking where it obviously mattered.

Bel's fingers were back at his neck, gently teasing around his protruding Adam's apple. She stepped a little closer to him, dragging the wine glass along the bar with her. She started playing her hand along his jawbone, she gently pinched his chin with her thumb and forefinger.

Altaïr wished she would stop touching his face; not that he didn't like her hands all over him, he merely wanted his wine. But his lips quivered as her fingers brushed against them, and he willingly took her index finger into his mouth, and sucked it gently. He delicately scratched his teeth against her skin. She sighed softly, removing her hand, resting it on his chest.

“Thank you,” Altaïr said with a crooked smile. “Now I can get my drink.” He reached for his wine glass, finishing half of it in one gulp.

“Desperate to finish and... go somewhere else?” Bel asked, flirtatiously, her hand reaching down his stomach, to between his legs. She squeezed gently. “I think you're ready.”

“Bel!” hissed Altaïr, “not right now...”

“Yes,” Bel whispered, as close as she could get to his ear. “Now.” She kissed him deeply, her tongue sliding casually into his mouth. Altaïr couldn't think of anything to do but kiss her in return. Wrapping his arms around her soft chest, he pressed his body against her, letting her know how up for it he was.

Suddenly, there was an intrusive tap on the tabletop, and the barman cleared his throat pointedly. “Excuse me, lovebirds,” he said. “Don't you think you ought to take this, er, business, somewhere else?” He smiled ironically, arms folded, fingers drumming.

Bel sighed, still pressed against Altaïr. “Come on, Jeremiah,” she sighed, “have a heart. The poor boy is in love.” She looked at Altaïr, catching brief eye contact with him.

The barman, Jeremiah, sighed. “Well, keep it tasteful,” he said. “I don't want folk thinking this is a brothel.”

“Don't worry, we'll be out of your hair soon,” Bel said airily. She picked up her glass, and drained it. “Come on, my darling,” she said, tugging on Altaïr's arm. “There's no need to pretend you don't want something from me. I can _tell_ you do.”

It was true. Bel turned him on so much, and though he knew he shouldn't go all the way, he couldn't resist her charms. The way she touched him, he couldn't explain how good it felt. Her kiss was magical, and made him feel strong, like he could take on anything. Was it love? He couldn't be sure. All he knew was he wanted Bel, naked and available for his pleasure.


	2. From Ecstasy To Agony

Bel led the frustrated, slightly confused (whether through lust or slight intoxication, she didn't know) Assassin out of the tavern, and pulled him down a side alley, a few yards away.

“You know a house down here?” Altaïr questioned, as Bel led him, at a fast pace, down the deserted alleyway.

Bel merely smiled.

They came to a dead-end, surrounded on all sides but the way they came from, by tall windowless stone walls. Confused, Altaïr opened his mouth to say something, but Bel silenced him with a slow kiss, pinning him aggressively against the wall. She broke away and pulled his hood clean off, the better to see his handsome features.

“Bel,” Altaïr said shakily, looking nervously around. “Not here... someone might catch us...”

“Isn't that the fun, Assassin?” Bel growled. “Besides, if something happens, I have you to protect me, right?” She winked. “Come on, get it out.”

Altaïr fumbled with his knife holsters, letting them drop gently to the floor, before removing his sash and tunic. “There,” he said lustfully. “That will make things easier.”

Stood there in a state of full arousal, trousers around his ankles, Altaïr was surprised to see that the daring Bel had removed her dress completely, and was standing, fully naked, in front of him. He gasped in amazement. “Oh... Bel,” he whispered, feeling himself twitch in excitement. He couldn't help himself. Reaching down, he began roughly touching himself, clenching his teeth to stop himself from grunting.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bel approached him, pulling his hands away. “Save yourself for me, my darling.” She pinned his arms against the wall, and noticed he was still wearing his bracer, his hidden blade. This turned her on, arousing the sense of danger within her, and also made her feel safe, knowing he could fend off anyone who might disturb them. She turned her attention back to Altaïr, sliding her soft hands up his undershirt. She wished he would take it off. It was just getting in the way.

“Hmm...” Bel sighed. “How are we going to do this?” She tugged at the collar of Altaïr's undershirt, and tore it. “Ooh, this should make it easier...” She slipped the remains of the torn clothing from his shoulders, admiring his muscular, naked torso, honed from what she supposed was years of training, climbing, and running from pursuers. Or was it after them...?

Altaïr was, as always, hypnotised by Bel's magnificent breasts, he barely noticed her ripping his shirt off. He kissed them, trailed his tongue to her nipples, gently sucking them. He held off from biting them, although he desperately wanted to. “You're gorgeous, you know that?” he growled into her ear, getting a mouthful of golden hair, which stuck to his wet lips. “Come on, I can't wait much longer.” He grabbed Bel's wide hips and lifter her off the ground. “Okay,” he said, “spread your legs... as wide as you can... and put your hands on the wall to balance...” Bel did so, cautiously, but Altaïr, immensely strong from supporting his own weight on countless ledges, often one-handed, had her in a firm hold. “It's okay, don't be nervous,” he whispered to a giggling Bel. “This might take a while... hold onto that wall... no, in fact...” He leant heavily against the wall. “Grab my shoulders, tight as you can.”

Bel did as she was bidden, looping her wrists under Altaïr's arms, gripping his shoulders, trying not to dig her nails in. The backs of her dainty hands dug into the cold masonry, but she didn't care. “Okay, now we're ready.” Holding her fleshy bottom with one hand, he grabbed himself, and feverishly fumbled for the opening between her legs. After a lot of giggling and countless failed attempts, Altaïr found himself exactly where he wanted – no, _needed –_ to be; inside his lover. It was surprisingly comfortable. He looked at Bel's flushed face; her eyes were half-closed, and she was sighing gently. He could definitely feel himself inside of her. “Okay, it's all up to you, my love,” he whispered, winking at her. Keeping a firm hold of the raunchy woman, he relaxed against the wall.

Bel knew exactly what to do next. She slowly moved her hips, allowing Altaïr deep inside her. She was a little cautious at first, worried about him slipping out and having to start again, but she found putting her knees flat against the wall gave her extra security and confidence to do what she had wanted to do to Altaïr since they had very first met; _really_ go to _town_ on him.

“How's that feel?” she snarled in to his ear. “That good for ya, boy?”

Altaïr didn't, or rather couldn't answer, he was concentrating on keeping Bel upright. She was a fairly hefty woman, but it was nothing he couldn't, quite literally, handle. He breathed deeply and let Bel do whatever she had to do. It was nice to let the woman take initiative for once. It alleviated the pressure he usually felt when he was making love to a woman, which would cause him to... not last as long as he wanted. Instead he clung to his girl for dear life, and relaxed against the wall as she rode him into submission.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but eventually the rush began to hit Altaïr as Bel ground her hips against his body. He physically felt his genitals constrict slowly against his sweating body, and his heart began to race. His breath came short, and he knew it wouldn't be long...

He bit his lip as the hot waves of bliss enveloped him. He couldn't help but yell out as it happened, yet relentlessly, Bel kept moving herself against him, frantically, as if she was close to orgasm and wanted to make herself climax.

“Whoa there, beautiful,” Altaïr finally croaked, the strange feeling still enveloping him. He could still feel himself coming uncontrollably. Lowering his girl to the floor, back to her feet, reluctantly pulling out of her comforting wet hole, he sighed. He pulled Bel to him and leaned heavily against the wall again. He assured himself; that was the best orgasm he had ever had. Panting and stroking her hair, which was damp with sweat, he savoured the ecstasy. “Oh God, Bel,” he said breathlessly. “How did you do that?”

 

Bel said nothing. Instead she squeezed herself ever closer to him, her head under his chin. She was still touching his shoulders, her forearms tucked into his armpits. Altaïr wondered; did she come as well? If not, it was his duty to make sure she had at least one orgasm.

 

“Come, my darling.” Altaïr momentarily released Bel and silently bid her to stand against the wall. “That's it, beautiful, good girl. Let me look after you.” He kissed her rosebud lips, and she squeezed his buttocks in return. He quite liked the way she did that. Trailing kisses down her torso, nibbling the soft skin, Altaïr knelt down in front of her and kissed her inner thighs. They were dripping with sweat after the work she had been doing on him. Bel giggled as he gently scraped his teeth on her chunky flesh.

 

“My dear, what are you doing?” she asked, looking downwards excitedly, her hands finding his soft black hair, which she gently started to run her fingers through. She did not need an answer, though, as Altaïr darted his tongue into the slippery slit between her legs. She sighed and leant against the wall, her knees starting to shake. “Oh my God!” she sighed, her nails scratching his scalp, and the back of his neck. “Oh my God, yes!”

Altaïr didn't at all mind giving pleasure to Bel, he just wished she would stop pulling his ears and digging into the rather sensitive skin on the back of his neck. He looked up at her, almost sternly. _Be gentle with me,_ he thought to himself. _Please._

Bel met his gaze, and she gently petted his head, smiling in her wicked manner. It was then that Altaïr realised he was under her control, completely and utterly. “Continue,” she said in a sultry voice, pushing the back of his head gently towards her.

Altaïr could do nothing else but oblige. It was the very least he could do after the way she had made him feel. He listened to her sighs of pleasure, trying to figure out if he was doing it right. He put his lips on the little hard bump at the top of her opening and kissed it softly, passionately. He heard Bel moan softly as he darted his tongue across it, so he continued doing it, a little slower, just to make her squirm. There was no way he was giving up full control to this woman! Bel moaned in ecstasy feeling Altaïr grip enthusiastically at her thighs; surely it wouldn't be long now.

“My God, Altaïr,” Bel whispered, feeling a warm jolt of pleasure spread around her body. “Thank you so much, my darling!” She stroked his soft hair and sighed, leaning against the cold masonry, enjoying the waves of her orgasm.

Altaïr looked up devilishly, licking his wet lips clean. “That didn't take long, did it?” he commented, lustily. He gave Bel's crotch one last kiss before standing up and kissing her on the lips. “God, you're so addictive, woman,” he growled.

“I know,” Bel whispered back, smiling wickedly, running a hand through his hair, damp with sweat, touching behind his ears, which really got Altaïr going. Was she doing this on purpose?

Altaïr crouched to pull up his trousers, although he really didn't want to. He wanted to give himself to her again and again. And again, if necessary. He felt insatiable around the woman. He no longer cared that she was married; he wanted her in every way – every conceivable position. “We will have to go soon,” he said seriously, handing Bel's dress up to her. “I feel sure we will get caught.”

Bel nodded, pulling her dress back on. Altaïr decided he hated that dress, as it covered up her gorgeous body, curves and all, and those wonderful breasts. He slipped his tunic back on, leaving his ripped undershirt discarded on the floor, and started feverishly fastening his weapon holsters. He pulled up his left sleeve to fix his bracer; he felt wrong with it on the inside of his clothing.

“Someone's a grumpy Assassin,” Bel remarked, kissing Altaïr's cheek, just before he pulled his cowl back on. “One would have thought a good seeing-to would have cheered him up.”

Altaïr sighed. He didn't want to leave sweet, delicious Bel. He wanted her again and again. He could handle the woman; he had just proved himself more than worthy. There was just one thing in his way; the elusive husband. He would go as far as ending the man's miserable, sexless life with his blade; however, he was an innocent in a game his reckless wife was playing, so it would be wrong, against the first tenet, to get him out of the way in this manner. What could he do to have Bel all to himself? That said, she was cheating on her husband, even though he _still_ didn't know whether she had good cause to, or even if he actually existed. Who was to say she wouldn't do the same to him, if they were together?

“My darling,” he whispered, “leave him.”

Bel appeared astonished. Her big blue eyes grew even wider, and she gasped. “I... can't,” she stammered.

Altaïr let out a groan of frustration and shook his head. “For goodness sake, woman!” he yelled. “Tell me the truth! What is the situation with you and this man, and why are you getting me involved?” As amazing as it had been, he was beginning to regret having his way with this crafty, manipulative woman. She was just too cruel. Then he noticed that Bel's cerulean eyes were watery.

“You don't understand, Assassin!” she hissed back.

“No, I don't,” retorted Altaïr, feeling his anger rising. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in both cheeks twitching dangerously.

Small, hot tears of sadness escaped from Bel's eyes. “He's dying, Altaïr,” she finally blurted. “He's dying, okay!”

“Oh...”  The mighty Assassin suddenly felt very small, feeling exceptionally guilty for even thinking about ending the poor man's life unnaturally. It was so cruel. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...” He tried to embrace Bel but, uncharacteristically, she pushed him away, causing him to stagger backward, and almost lose his footing. “What was that for?” he snarled at her, tensing up, accidentally triggering his blade, which he quickly retracted. “You crazy woman!”

“There's nothing they can do,” Bel sobbed, crumpling against the wall, the same wall she, minutes earlier, had pinned Altaïr to, taking her pleasure. “Every day, he fights for breath a little more.”

Altaïr crouched down next to her. “I had no idea,” he said, earnestly. He wanted to touch her face, wipe away those tears, but he was afraid of Bel's reaction. “What's happening?”

“I don't know,” Bel sighed. “Some sort of lung disease that can't be cured.” She shook her lowered head. “We had to sell the business last month. He can barely leave his bed, let alone work,” she explained thickly, through her tears. “Some days, I'm afraid to go home. I'm scared... scared of what I might find.” She began to weep.

“Beautiful,” Altaïr took Bel in his arms. This time she let him hold her; he rocked her gently as she sobbed. “My poor girl.” He was beginning to understand. She did what she did as a means of keeping out of the house, as an excuse not to go back to a possibly dead husband. “You must go to him, my darling,” he whispered. “He needs you, he needs his loving wife by his side.”

“I'm scared, Altaïr,” she quavered. “He was really, really bad this morning when I left him... I should have stayed with him.” She shook her head. “But he told me to go... let him get on with it. 'Go my love... go and enjoy yourself... I know what you're like...' That's what he said.” She tried to smile.

“So, he knows,” Altaïr asked her. “What you do with me.” He wondered idly if there were any others, his thoughts straying back to Malik. Eyeing her quizzically, knowing the two had met, he couldn't help but wonder again...

Bel shook her head again. “He doesn't know the specifics,” she croaked. A small smile appeared on her beautiful, tear-streaked face. “We used to have such a fulfilling love life,” she sighed dreamily. “He was so passionate, tender, loving...” She swallowed tears. “When I said you reminded me of him, I meant it, my darling.” She stroked Altaïr's cheek, her soft fingertips brushing against his lips, sending a shiver down his spine. “You are just like he was when we first met, when he was well,” she explained. “That is why I have been feeling lonely, my love.”

Altaïr's mind was racing. Bel was highly sexed, always had been, and her poor husband, from what it seemed, had given her some sort of blessing to go out and fulfil her needs. He needed to know, was he the only one? Did Bel's husband know about him? How long had he been ill? Was it certain he was going to die? So many questions... _One at a time,_ the Assassin thought calmly. “Tell me, my darling,” he whispered to Bel, feeling her arms around his chest as he cradled her, “am I the only man you have been seeing, or are there others?”

Bel sobbed. “How could you ask that?” she cried, sounding genuinely hurt. “I would never do something like that! It is you, and you alone!”

Altaïr gave her a knowing, reproachful look, which Bel understood. She nodded sadly. “I know I am betraying him, but... you are so much like him, it doesn't feel like I am.” She tried to smile.

“Go to him,” Altaïr reiterated kindly. “He needs you right now, and you need him.” He ran his fingers through Bel's hay-coloured hair. He couldn't stay cross at her for long.

“Okay,” Bel croaked through her tears. She blinked a couple of times, to vainly relieve her puffy, red eyes. “But please.” She reached for Altaïr's hand, and squeezed it. “Come with me.”

Altaïr smiled. How could he refuse this beautiful maiden. “Of course,” he said, helping Bel to her feet. “Please, lead the way.”

Hand in hand, Bel and Altaïr walked through the busy streets of Jerusalem, past rows and rows of market stalls, grand buildings, and across courtyards, eventually coming to a row of humble-looking terraces. Bel came to a worn looking wooden door, and carefully pushed it open. “Joe?” she whispered uncertainly. “Joe, darling...”

Altaïr heard a vague wheeze. “Bella,” it sounded like. He hesitated at the door, but Bel gently guided him by the hand, into the house, and closed the door behind them.

On the cold stone floor, lay an emaciated figure on a makeshift mattress, a few yards away, amongst bloodstained sheets. Trying not to panic, Bel rushed over to her husband's side, and tenderly grabbed his wrist. “My darling... my darling...” she whispered, bravely holding back tears.

The house was cold, and the smell of death, so familiar to Altaïr's nostrils, was abundant in the house. The poor man was lying in his own excrement; and blood, which he had no doubt been coughing up. It was clear that Joe, Bel's cherished husband, was not long for the world. Bel glanced over at the Assassin, and beckoned him over. “He wasn't like this when I left him,” she whispered urgently. “All this blood, Altaïr... what's happened?”

Uncertainly, Altaïr came closer to the man, whose shallow breathing was hauntingly loud. The stricken figure coughed harshly, and Bel noticed in horror as blood sprayed out of his mouth. Trying not to panic, she stroked her husband's close-cropped, thinning hair. “Joe, stay with me.”

“Bella,” the man called Joe croaked again. “My...  time grows short...”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Bel wept, cradling Joe. “You're not going to die... not today, my love.”

Joe laughed a wheezy laugh, some more blood issuing from his mouth. “Look... at me, dar... darling.” He was fighting to breathe, let alone speak. “Ly... lying... in my own... blood... my own... dirt... can't move... can barely... breathe...” Bel noticed the dried blood around his lips and chin, that he had been too tired to wipe away. She reached for a carafe by the bedside, and poured some water onto a nearby piece of cloth, tenderly wiping his bloodied face. “Thank you...”

Altaïr was glad his eyes were hidden, for they felt watery, and there was a lump in his throat. The air was dry in this house; maybe he should open a window...

“Altaïr,” he heard a tired voice say, “this is my husband, Joseph. Joe, this is my friend, Altaïr.” She paused. “We met at the pub.”

Altaïr saw Bel flush a little as she said this. “Come closer,” she said.

The Assassin crept towards the stricken man. “It is an honour to meet you,” he said kindly, kneeling beside the mattress. “I have heard so much about you, sir.”

Joe's dark eyes fell upon Altaïr. There was an amused, interested light in them, though that was slowly fading. “He... hello,” he managed, with a smile. “You... you been... looking... after my... my wife?” He wheezed loudly.

Altaïr flushed, not knowing quite how to answer that question.

“Yes he has,” Bel put in, stroking one of Joe's skeletal hands. “We're... very good friends.” This made Altaïr blush even more, thanking the comforting concealment of his hood.

Joe's lips formed into a weak smile. “Good... good...” He closed his eyes momentarily, and when he flitted them open, they were gazing at Altaïr. “Young ma... man,” he wheezed, “pl-please... look after my... darling wife... after I've gone. Nev... never, ever... make her cry... I wa...”

His sentence was interrupted by a loud, uncontrollable coughing fit. Altaïr reached out for the man, and gently sat him up upon the straw-stuffed cushions. Blood sprayed from Joe's mouth and onto the Assassin's white cuffs. Meanwhile, Bel, inconsolable, knelt beside her husband's death-bed, her face in her hands, incoherently sobbing. Noticing that the coughing had subsided, Altaïr reached for the water bottle and held it to Joseph's lips. Very little made it into his mouth, as the poor man was simply too weak to swallow. “Sorry... young... young man,” he apologised to Altaïr, clinging to the Assassin's arms.

Altaïr could tell that this act of respect was taking up all of Joe's strength. He put down the water, gently placed the man's arms at his sides, and put a hand to his clammy brow. “Rest now, Joseph,” he whispered, an unusually gentle hand behind the dying man's head. “It's going to be all right.” Joseph's rapid breathing, cold sweating and deep swallowing concerned him. He had seen these signs so many times, in the death throes of his targets. He glanced over at Bel, her comely figure shaking with sobs, her face still hidden in her soft, beautiful hands. He wondered if she knew what was about to happen, and thought her wonderfully, amazingly brave, to have hidden her grief so well.

“My dear boy,” wheezed Joseph, remarkably lucidly for a dying man. “Thank you for bringing my wife home to me safe.” Shakily, he reached for Bel's arm, touching it gently, before gripping it for all he was worth. He turned his head to her. “Don't cry, my darling,” he told her, as she uncovered her face, red and tear-stained, but no less dazzling. He still had a smile on his lips. “I worry about you, you know,” he said. “I know what you get up to, and I scare myself constantly. What people is she meeting?” He stroked his wife's hand. “Is she safe? Is she happy? Is she being hurt, raped, murdered?” He sniffed, and swallowed to suppress a cough. A gurgling in the stomach told Altaïr that Joseph had just swallowed a significant amount of blood. “Sometimes I wished you wouldn't, but you are just...” He paused, and took a look at his wife, with obvious love. “Such a free spirit. I couldn't deny you the pleasures in life.”

His head turned slowly, shakily, towards Altaïr, who noticed that Joseph's eye's were becoming glazed, his breathing, once again, laboured, his chest rising and falling in an unnatural, exaggerated way. It wouldn't be long now. “So, you're the dear lad who made my wife so happy, yet so miserable,” he spluttered. “She was so upset when you went away, you know; it nearly killed me.” He laughed, in spite of himself, spraying more of his life's blood on the soiled sheets. “You should know, Altaïr, my dear fellow, when I became sick, it was very hard on my darling Bella. I... no longer had the strength to give her what she needed... physical love and affection, you know... I was too weary.

“So I said: go out there, and find a nice man who can give you what I cannot, the intimacy you deserve. Then you came along... I have never seen her happier when she came home and told me all about you.” Altaïr blushed, feeling embarrassed that Joseph was aware of what had been going on. “It was clear she adored you the way she adored me... before I was taken... taken ill...” He began to cough again.

Bel squeezed her husband's hand, as Altaïr helped him sit up and expel the blood, stopping it from drowning him. It was a short-term solution, for soon he would die. “I still adore you,” Bel said, kissing Joseph's gaunt, stubbly cheek. “Always...”

Joseph's breath was coming harder and faster now, he drew up his knees and clenched his teeth in agony. “My wife,” he managed in a thin voice, “my darling Bella. I love you...” Then he flopped down onto the bed, his eyes rolling upwards and snapping shut. With a final grunt, frothy, dark pink blood drooled from his mouth. After that, he was gone. His hand was still clutching his wife's.

“Joe!” Bel screamed. “Joe, darling, please don't go. Please don't leave me!” She threw herself onto Joseph's motionless chest, sobbing loudly.

Altaïr felt silent tears cascade down his cheeks, though he felt sure that Bel would not hear him sobbing above her own grieving cries. He knew how Bel must be feeling, as he was reminded strongly of Adha, lying silent and lifeless in his arms, killed by Templars, de Sable's men, if not the bastard himself! She had been so beautiful, even in death; it had taken Malik, Kadar and Rauf – three grown men – to prise him away from her stricken, delicate corpse. He hadn't wanted to let go of her, despite the fact they would never talk, laugh, or love again. It had been the hardest thing he had ever had to face, and something inside of him died and withered away that day, never to return. It had left him hard, cynical, cold and arrogant. Human nature could be so cruel, and he had no longer wanted to be a part of it. However, the warmth and love he had just witnessed between a dying man and his loving wife, touched him deep inside. Despite the fact she had cheated on him, even if it was with his blessing, his dying breath had been a declaration of love with the woman he had chosen to spend the rest of his life with. It gave him hope.

He removed his cowl and bowed his head, in a show of respect for Joseph, and his grieving widow.

Bel did not seem to believe that her husband had passed. “Joe,” she whispered through her tears, into his still chest, “I love you too, my darling. I never stopped loving you. Even when you got sick, I vowed to stay by your side. I'm sorry, darling, I shouldn't have left you this morning... when you needed me the most...” She dissolved into tears again, stroking Joseph's still warm hand.

Altaïr began to feel awkward. Should he leave Bel alone to grieve? That said, he didn't want her to be by herself right now. He wiped away his own tears, determined not to let Bel see him cry. This was too sad and heartbreaking. He wanted to take Bel in his arms and hold her, comfort her, without expecting or taking anything else in return. He felt for the dear woman, knew exactly how she felt; the loss of the love of her life. He felt he should say something, but... what?

Bel looked up, still beautiful despite her puffy red eyes, running nose and trembling bottom lip. She gazed questioningly at Altaïr. “He... he's gone, isn't he?” she managed to stammer.

Feeling a lump in his throat, which made it impossible to speak without his voice breaking, and tears following, Altaïr swallowed hard and nodded. He hoped that would be enough.

Bel sniffed. “He knew,” she sighed. “He knew he was dying.” She gazed at Joseph. Save for the blood on his chin, he looked peaceful. “That's why he told me to go out and find someone else, even while he was still alive.” She turned her mournful gaze to Altaïr. “He only sold the market stall last month,” she explained sadly. “He worked until he couldn't work any more, knowing his life was coming to an...” Her sobs started again, and she crawled around the mattress, flinging her arms around Altaïr's body.

“Bel,” Altaïr whispered. “I'm so sorry.” He felt his voice cracking, and getting thick with unshed tears, so he buried his face into Bel's shoulder, letting his tears fall onto her beautiful dress. He hoped she wouldn't notice.

“Darling?” Bel whispered, a hand stroking that soft shock of dark brown hair, “are you crying?” She squeezed Altaïr's warm, comforting body. She couldn't believe it herself. The big, tough, cold Assassin, letting his emotions get the better of him? The rapid rhythm of his breath told her it was true. “Sweet one,” she said quietly, “it's okay. It's my soul mate that has died, not yours.”

At this, Altaïr let out an uncontrollable mournful sob. As soon as it happened, he was sorry, and so embarrassed. He felt Bel's fingers caress his neck, and he found the strength to bite back his emotions. How could he tell her that he felt her pain, as he had felt it before. He knew how hard it was to hold the empty shell of a loved-one, knowing that that person was gone, would never talk, laugh, or feel any more. He knew it was the hardest thing ever, and it was so, so painful.

“My darling,” Bel, whispered. “You've lost someone, too, haven't you.”

 _No,_ thought Altaïr. _I don't want to talk about it._ It made him think about the loss he had suffered in his life; his mother died bringing him into the world, and he had never known her. His father had sacrificed himself to save the young Altaïr's life, along with the rest of Masayf, and he had witnessed the suicide of his childhood friend's father. Finally, the death of Adha, although he hadn't seen it happen, had made him hard-bitten and cynical. If only he had been there, he might have saved her. So many regrets and wishes. If only

he had known his dear mother. If only his father had found another way, and lived. If only Adha had not been murdered, if only he could have stopped the sword slicing her delicate neck. _If only,_ was all he could think.

Altaïr sniffed, cleared his throat and looked at Bel. “We ought to let someone know of Joe's passing,” he said, matter-of-factly. “He needs to be buried.” As soon as the words tumbled clumsily from his mouth, he regretted it. In an instant, Bel let go of him, and smacked him smartly about the face, screaming as she went.

Altaïr staggered backwards, reeling from the sudden attack. He did not protest, he did not even rub his sore cheek. He deserved to be struck. What he had said was insensitive, true, but he simply did not want to talk about Adha, his parents, Abbas' father... anyone.

“You heartless bastard!” Bel screamed, picking up the water carafe and flinging it at Altaïr. “He's _my_ husband, I don't need you telling me what I need to do!” She eyed him dangerously. “Get out of my house!” she screamed. “Go on, go! Leave us! I don't want to see your face again. Here!” She threw his cowl at him; it hit Altaïr in the chest and landed at his feet. “If you have any decency, you'll need that. You don't deserve to show your face in public!”

Altaïr stooped to pick up his hood, and he smartly pulled it back on before turning without another word from Bel, and stalking towards the door. He half-hoped Bel would change her mind, apologise, and throw herself into his arms once again, seeking the comfort she sorely needed. She didn't, and she barely flinched as Altaïr slammed the worn door behind him.

Altaïr wanted to sit down on the doorstep and cry, but an unearthly, inhuman sound, like a strangled cry of an animal in pain, gave him a start, and he bolted up the adjacent wall into the rooftops. The noise had been so sudden and frightening, he did not want to investigate it. Instead he sought the refuge of a roof garden, where none would hear his sobs of despair.


	3. Grief

He lay there, within the confines of the wooden-framed, curtained cubby-hole, in a foetal position, sobbing like an infant. He felt the tears dribble across the bridge of his nose, down his cheeks, onto his chin. He had not meant to offend Bel or disrespect Joseph; he was merely trying to be practical. Also, he wasn't ready to talk about beautiful Adha to anyone, let alone Bel. What would she think, after all, she was another woman? It was true that Adha was in the past, but... it didn't feel right talking about it to Bel. Why, though? Surely she would understand, especially now. Altaïr idly thought about going back to apologise to the sweet woman, but he was quite frankly terrified of the reception he would receive. He sighed. Why had he not explained himself when he had the chance? He was a simple, stupid man! He didn't deserve such a wonderful, caring, big-hearted, beautiful woman like Bel. He was doomed to be alone for the rest of his life.

“Damn it all!” he hollered, before jumping out of the roof garden, and across the street, on to the roof of Bel's house. He didn't care if she hated him, he couldn't leave her alone in this state. Terrifying thoughts crossed his mind, what if Bel had chosen to take her own life to be with her beloved Joseph? No, he couldn't be responsible for someone's death, at least not like this. Not again.

Looking skyward – it was darkening now so some significant time must have passed – he thought nonchalantly that maybe Adha's spirit was up there somehow. Silently he wished that she would bring both him and Bel some strength, where and when it was needed most. “Adha, my darling,” he croaked, his eyes feeling hot and wet again, a feeling he could barely stand. “I'm sorry I couldn't save you, but please, grant me the strength to save Bel. She needs help... help me show her... life goes on.” He shook his head. This was stupid. Walking to the edge of the building, he peered down, hoping he might catch a glimpse of Bel.

Nothing. He listened; hearing the chatter of passing people in the street, unaware of the tragic death of a neighbour, distant shouts of local tradesmen, and the call to evening prayer for the faithful. Altaïr gave an ironic sigh when he heard it; all faith, all thoughts of the mere existence of a God, had disappeared as he cradled that poor girl, life snatched by so-called defenders of  'faith'. Some God! If He did exist, why did He let such a beautiful creature die so violently, at the hands of His crusaders? It was a mess, a damned mess, and he wanted no part of it! Altaïr wanted to scream, but held his tongue to avoid giving away his position.

Apart from everything else, he heard nothing from Bel's house although he listened close. No movement, no voices. This worried him, so he jumped down to the street, landing in front of Bel's chipped, scratched front door. Gently, he knocked.

“Bel,” he whispered. “Bel, are you there? It's me, Altaïr.” He sniffed, trying to prevent an outpouring of tears. “I came to say... I'm sorry.”

The door remained unopened, so Altaïr gave it an experimental push; it creaked open. Nervously, he peered around the frame, a little afraid of what he might see.

Bel was standing at a table, calmly folding a pile of clothes, which Altaïr guessed had belonged to Joe. She held up a cream smock by the shoulders, and looked at it tenderly for a few moments, before folding it in half, and in half again. She placed it on the neat bundle, then suddenly she buried her face in her hands, and began sobbing loudly, hunched over the little stack of laundry.

Slowly, uncertainly, Altaïr approached her. He was well aware he would probably scare her and make things worse, but he loved her, and it was agony watching her in such anguish. He cleared his throat feebly to make his presence known. “Bel, sweetheart,” he said quietly, so quietly he could hardly hear himself. “I'm so sorry, darling.”

Bel did not even flinch, so Altaïr crept closer, and stroked her beautiful hair. It was unkempt and impossibly tangled, but she had better things to think on than her looks. Her husband had just passed, for pity's sake! Still no reaction. She carried on sobbing, as if Altaïr wasn't even there.

 Altaïr could stand it no longer. Bel was in pain, and he only knew of one way to make her feel better. Standing behind her, he wrapped his strong arms around her, his cheek resting on her right shoulder, his lips barely touching her soft skin. “It's okay,” he whispered. “I'm here now, and I'm sorry.” He tensed his stomach muscles, fully expecting to be elbowed hard in the gut, but the elbowing never came. He felt Bel's hand, damp with her numerous tears, stroke his fingers. Was he forgiven?

“I went to see the undertaker after you left,” Bel said, emotionlessly. “They took him. They will bury him tomorrow.”

Altaïr squeezed Bel's body to him, finding the courage to gently kiss her cheek. “I hope they are taking good care of him,” he said quietly.

Bel turned to Altaïr, and stroked his cheek, the one she had struck hours before. “I hope so too,” she whispered. She smiled, a very weak, watery smile. “They were very nice,” she continued. “They cleaned up the place, got rid of the sheets and the mattress where he...” She swallowed hard. “Well, you know. They offered to take his things as well, but... I'm not ready.” She sniffed. “They understood so well.”

“They have to,” Altaïr said calmly. “They deal with death every day.” He paused. _They probably clean up after me,_ he thought wryly to himself. “And so do I, yet I insist on hurting you, Bel,” he went on, ironically. “Why do I do it?” He felt that horrible, hot, teary-eyed sensation again. Yet this time, he felt comfortable just to let it out; he began to sob. “I let her die Bel,” he croaked through his tears. “I could have saved her, but I was too late. They got to her, realised she was important to me, and _killed_ her, out of spite!”

Bel was glad Altaïr was finally offloading his heavy burden of grief he had been carrying for God knows how long, but was confused. “Who, my darling?” she asked, concerned.

Altaïr sniffed. “I didn't mean to keep it from you, my love,” he croaked, “but it still hurts. The Templars... they murdered my first love. Adha... was her name.” He shook his head. “They murdered her... I know not why, even after two years. Something to do with their stupid faith.... a sacrifice... I don't know any more...”

Bel gasped. “My poor, beautiful boy,” she whispered, taking Altaïr into her arms. “I knew you had lost someone dear to you. I didn't know it had been so... so tragic.” She began to cry, burying her head in Altaïr's chest.

Altaïr held Bel to his body tightly, unclipping his short blade holster so it wouldn't be uncomfortable against her cheeks, red-raw from crying. It clattered to the wooden floor. Joe's death had been no less tragic; he did not deserve to die so young.

“I thought you didn't understand,” Bel wept. “I said such horrible things to you, my dear. I'm so sorry.”

Gently, Altaïr kissed Bel's dry lips. “You've done nothing to apologise for,” he told her, tenderly. Grief did some terrible things to people, he knew that. Maybe, perhaps, he was still grieving for Adha, and that was why he was the way he was.

Bel sighed. “May I ask something of you?” she said quietly.

Altaïr smiled back at her. “Anything,” he answered reassuringly.

“Stay with me tonight,” Bel said, clutching Altaïr even tighter. “I don't want to be alone. I'm... I'm scared.”

“Of course I will, my sweet,” Altaïr reassured beautiful Bel. “I will not leave your side.”

Bel kissed him softly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I'm so tired, Altaïr. I can't go on...” She relaxed completely into his arms, as if she had fainted. Had she?

“Bel,” Altaïr clutched the poor, emotionally and physically exhausted woman to his chest. He lifted her off her feet, and carried her to a small room at the back of the house, which he supposed was the bedroom. He had been right, there was a mattress on the floor, which he laid her tenderly upon. He brushed her golden hair out of her puffy eyes, and laid a hand on her clammy forehead, allowing his fingertips to brush her soft skin. He noticed she was still awake, but staring into space, as if she were trying to forget. He did not blame her. Removing his cowl, and the rest of his weaponry, letting his sword, bracer, and throwing knives drop to the floor, he kicked off his boots and lay down next to her. His arms encircled her, uncertainly at first (this was her marital bed, after all), but when Bel made no attempt to push him away or resist, he squeezed her gently. He felt Bel's hand touch his right wrist, her fingers curled around it. She gave a sigh of contentment.

“So strange,” she murmured.

Altaïr was confused. “Hmm? How so?” he asked.

Bel shook her head, her hair gently tickling Altaïr's face, though he made no complaint. “Joe... he used to hold me like this when I felt bad... you know, bad day at work, when I felt ill, or upset...” She sniffed, swallowing some tears. “Exactly like this... so strange you do the same thing.” She giggled softly, ironically. “I can't get over it.”

“I'm sorry,” Altaïr made to let go of Bel, but she squeezed his wrist hard.

“No,” she whispered. “Don't let me go, darling... I like it.” She closed her eyes. “Stay with me... just like this, Altaïr.”

“Of course I will,” Altaïr whispered. “Whatever you wish.” He gently kissed the nape of her neck.

Bel sighed, and tried to keep still. Joe had never done this to her. This was Altaïr, wonderful, sexy Altaïr, all over. It was a different, enjoyable comfort to her. Even though she had just lost her husband, Altaïr was man enough to take her mind from it, just for a night, for she had to bury her beloved husband in the morning. She just wanted this moment with her beautiful Assassin lover. She guided his hand to her breast.

Altaïr barely noticed, and went on stroking Bel's comely body, feeling the soft material of her dress. “Dear, beautiful, Bel,” he whispered, “I would gladly spend the rest of my life, with you in my arms.” He rested his head on her shoulder, and closed his eyes as well, as if to sleep.

“Do you mean that?” Bel asked, tenderly, sneaking Altaïr's fingers underneath her dress.

Feeling her soft skin. Altaïr smiled to himself. Surely, that was the last thing on her mind. She had just lost her husband to a nasty, incurable lung disease, causing him to drown in his own blood, and she was willing to take her lover, in their marital bed? Bel was impossible to understand, but he couldn't help but want to grant her wishes, her desires. He kissed the back of her neck again, this time with more passion, daring to use his teeth, just a little bit.

Bel sighed, her eyes flickering open. “Oh, Altaïr, that's lovely,” she sighed. “Do that again.” She felt her breath come faster, and her body felt hot. “Please...”

Surprised, Altaïr's lips brushed once again upon Bel's neck, gently gnawing her skin. He heard her sigh of pleasure, and felt a little embarrassed. Did she really want this? He had to be sure.

“Bel, my darling,” he whispered, “are you certain this is what you want?” He traced the tip of his tongue along her jawline, aching to reach her rose-petal lips. “After everything that's happened, after everything you and I have experienced today...?”

Bel found the strength to grip Altaïr around the middle, pulling at his loose sash, untying it and throwing it carelessly onto the floor. Finding himself kneeling over Bel, Altaïr's robes fell open, exposing his bare chest; he had quite forgotten his undershirt had earlier been torn from him in a fit of passion. Bel reached up, stroking his bare, muscular stomach. He sighed. He wished she wouldn't do that, it was getting him excited, and he didn't think it was appropriate to be in this state, considering Bel was a very recent widow.

“Oh, Altaïr,” Bel sighed, reaching for his shoulders, taking his robes from his body, slipping his arms out of the sleeves. “I need this so much, I...” She reached up and kissed him intensely. “I need to forget, just for a few hours, darling. Please...” Unable to resist that beautiful shock of raven hair, she ran her hands through it, sighing at the soft feeling between her fingers. “Take me.”

It felt so good that Bel was willing to offer herself to him so freely, but Altaïr felt uncomfortable about the situation. He felt like he was taking advantage of her. She was in an emotional state, her eyes were bloodshot, and her cheeks were blotchy due to her innumerable tears, and her hair was tangled and knotted.  “I love you,” he breathed into her ear, “but, I can't my darling. Not whilst you're like this... you can't think straight. I....” He allowed his fingers to stroke her tear-stained cheeks. “I cannot take advantage of you, my darling.” For a few moments he knelt over her, drinking in the beauty of her curves underneath her dress, her soft skin, those beautiful breasts of hers. “It doesn't mean I don't love you, Bel,” he whispered tenderly.

“I... I understand,” Bel stammered, understanding Altaïr's position entirely. It was rather selfish of her to be thinking of her needs at a time like this. Her beloved husband was lying dead and cold in a faceless public building, being guarded by strangers. She needed to make sure he was safely buried, committed to the next life, before she could continue properly with hers.

“Just let me hold you,” Altaïr whispered, as he lay himself back down next to the grieving woman. “Beautiful, sweet darling.”

It was surreal; Altaïr was still having trouble comprehending it all. He had met this woman by chance, a few months ago. He had fancied her upon sight, and she knew that. She _must_ have liked him too, otherwise she would never had invited him into the 'back room' of her little tavern. Despite the bombshell that she was already married, he had made love to her; just a quickie, but it had obviously meant a lot to her. Otherwise, why would she have written a note to him, and asked Malik to pass it on? As for her husband, he finally understood. Joe was a good man, but became so sick, he could no longer satisfy his wife's needs. He cared enough to let her go, knowing he was slowly but surely dying. Not many husbands would do that; he guessed that Bel was a special case. Joe had been scared, though, frightened for Bel's safety. He knew she may offer herself to any man she found attractive. Another man may have been brutal, abusive, or might have hurt her – or worse – if he had found out about Joe, whether or not he knew the truth. Joe had said he was so glad someone like Altaïr – who would never hurt or disrespect a woman – had found his dear wife, and was treating her right. As he held the woman, her body shaking with sobs, he vowed to continue to treat her right, for as long as he could.

“Thank you so much, my sweet,” she breathed through her tears. She sniffed, and she brought her hand up to her eyes, wiping them, even though it stung to do so.

He smiled. “For what?”

Bel turned to the Assassin, and smiled.

“Are you okay, my darling?” Altaïr asked concerned, stroking Bel's damp hair.

“Of course,” she sighed. It was far from the truth, but things seemed far clearer, as Altaïr was holding her She reached and stroked Altaïr's sides, making him squirm a little as he held her. “I love you so much.”

“I know,” sighed Altaïr, kissing Bel's forehead. It was soft and cold. She needed something to cover her; to protect her from the comparatively chilly night air. He reached for his discarded tunic. “I love you too, my darling. You're an amazing woman.” He wrapped his clothes, still warm from his body heat, around the beautiful, bereaved woman in his arms. He felt tears sting his eyes. “You've... been through so much today,” he croaked, cuddling her closely, relaxing next to her. “I'm sorry.”

Bel stroked Altaïr's chest. “It's okay,” she whispered, “don't worry. Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” Altaïr whispered, kissing Bel's forehead.

“Come with me, tomorrow morning, when they bury Joe,” she whispered. “Stay with me, as long as your work allows, my sweet,” she implored. “I couldn't stand to be alone.”

“Of course I will,” Altaïr whispered. He felt the tears come again. If he could, he would renounce the Creed,  become a humble market-trader, and live a normal life, just so he could stay with beautiful Bel, keep the promise he had made to a dying man, and look after her, until _his_ dying day. However, it was his destiny to carry out the wishes of Al Mualim, and serve and protect the Brotherhood, the same one his father had died for. Wishing he could stay with Bel for a few months or so, he knew his Master's patience would not spread that thin; he had work to do. Life was unfair, so bitterly unfair. It should be Joe she was holding this night, not he. Altaïr did not deserve the love of such a patient, understanding woman, even in the face of adversity.

“Sleep well, my darling,” he whispered to Bel, her cheek resting upon his chest, eyes blissfully closed.


	4. One More Mission

The funeral was a blur. All Altaïr remembered was a lot of tears, not just from Bel, and a tight hug at the graveside.

“Please, at least come to visit me,” she wept into his chest. “You... you are always welcome.”

Sniffing back hot tears, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, he tried to speak. “I wish I could stay with you, sweet darling,” he said, aware that his voice was breaking, but not caring. “I wish I could keep Joe's promise, I really do...” He dissolved into quiet sobs on Bel's shoulder; she embraced him tightly.

“I understand,” she replied tearfully. “You... you have work to do... and it ultimately protects me, and all the people of this realm.”

Altaïr hoped so. He stroked Bel's cheek. “Someday, when this is all over,” he pledged, “I'll come and see you.” Gazing at her beauty, he ran his fingers through her golden hair, for what he knew may be the last time. “I might be married with a family, you may have moved on, we will both be older, but I promise you one thing.” He sniffed hard. “I will never, ever forget you, my sweet darling.” He leant in for one last kiss, before he had to turn and leave her; he may as well rend his heart from his body and leave it at her feet. He savoured it, every twitch, every sound, every movement. Who knew when, or if, he would ever do this again?

After what he wished had been eternity, the couple finally broke away. “I wish I never had to leave your arms,” Altaïr croaked. “I love you so much.” He gently kissed her forehead.

“I love you too,” Bel answered weepily, slowly, reluctantly, letting go of the Assassin. She clung to his fingers for a moment, before unwillingly allowing their contact to break. “Forever, my darling.” She leant forward to give him a final peck on the cheek.

Altaïr smiled softly, pulled on his hood, promptly hiding his sad eyes, and the tears coming from them. He turned and walked away, his pace quickening as he went, bounding up the nearest building, out of sight.

Across the rooftops he went until he found what he was looking for; he dropped in through the open roof.

* * *

 Malik heard the soft thud of footsteps in the hallway. He stood up, and went to investigate.

“Ah, Altaïr!” he exclaimed, a smile upon his face. “Was our mission successful?”

Uncharacteristically, Altaïr removed his cowl, an action which shocked and surprised Malik. He marked that the Assassin looked unusually scruffy, with two days' worth of beard growth (most unlike Altaïr, who would usually shave at the earliest opportunity), tousled hair, much more than from it being stuck under his cowl all day, and most curiously, red, puffy eyes. “By the Gods, Altaïr, what on Earth has happened to you?” Malik exclaimed, shocked by his friend's unusually unkempt appearance. He clamped his hand to his mouth, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “What are we going to do with you, sir?”

Altaïr shook his head; it felt like it was spinning. “I need some rest, Malik,” he sighed. “It has been a very difficult few days.” He slumped down on the bureau's rug, piled with pillows, and, wishing it was Bel's comfortable bed, he grabbed a cushion and hugged it to his chest.

Malik considered his friend for a few seconds. “Of course,” he said, importantly. “I'll leave you to it, sir.” He scurried back to the office, and began busying himself with paperwork. Yet he was distracted by the presence dozing on the mattress in the next room

Altaïr's sudden, and shabby appearance, and out-of-character desire for sleep told the Bureau leader that something was very wrong. The last time their paths had been crossed, he had been agitated over a small, pink, rose-scented piece of paper, and he turns up some two days later, like this? He knew women could be quite the troublemakers, but to reduce the cynical, uncaring, tough Altaïr to a tired, emotional shadow of himself, was most unusual. He longed to go to his friend, arouse him from his slumber, and find out what the matter was, but he feared a blade in the throat. All he could do was wait for the man to wake up of his own accord.

* * *

 Hours later, upon hearing some incoherent muttering, he glanced into the next room. Altaïr's eyes were still closed, and his arms were tightly clinging to a soft embroidered cushion.

“Altaïr,” Malik whispered. “Altaïr, are you okay?”

“Hmm?” Altaïr stirred. He opened his eyes and was disappointed to find he wasn't clutching the beautiful woman he had been dreaming of; his dear Bel. “Oh... Malik,” he croaked. He slumped back down, burying his head back into the pillows.

“What is troubling you, friend?” Malik asked, with genuine concern. “I have not seen you like this for some time. Come.” He knelt down next to the stricken Assassin, touching his shoulder. “Tell me what the matter is.”

Reluctantly, Altaïr sat up, still clutching onto the cushion he had wished, and hoped, to be Bel. He knew he looked foolish and childlike, but at this moment, he did not care. Let Malik think what the hell he wanted! He eyed the Bureau leader, daring him to try an insult.

“Something went wrong?” Malik asked, trying to sound as sympathetic as he could. “Please tell me, friend, what happened?”

Altaïr took a breath. “Where do I start?” he sighed.

Malik smiled kindly. “From the beginning,” he suggested. “This has something to the do with the woman from the tavern, yes?”

Altaïr nodded. “I found her, we shared a moment...” Their encounter in the alleyway seemed like centuries ago. “And then... I had to witness the death of her husband.”

Malik's mouth fell open. “Altaïr!” he exclaimed, shocked. “You didn't!” His assumption was that Altaïr had taken the husband out of the equation with his blade; Altaïr sensed this, and deployed the still-shining blade from his sleeve, to show this wasn't the case.

“No, I didn't,” Altaïr confirmed, retracting the blade and lowering his clenched fist, trying not to sound agitated. “He died of disease, and let me assure you, it was painful and upsetting to watch!” He scrunched up his dark brown eyes to hold back the tears.

Malik was stunned. Humanity, and feeling, coming from the Assassin? Surely not! “I'm certain it must have been,” he said, a little sharper than he meant to, Kadar at the forefront of his mind. Softening, he said, “I apologise, Altaïr.”

Altaïr looked up at Malik with his bloodshot eyes. “It's quite all right,” he replied. “I just... can't help thinking about his dear sweet wife.” He shook his head.

“Oh yes,” Malik said, brightening. “She has quite the thing for you, does she not?” he asked.

Altaïr raised a chuckle at Malik's inappropriate enthusiasm for the subject. “Indeed,” he agreed, keen to say no more on the subject. He already missed her in so many ways. Her voice, her smile, her touch, the way she held him, her smell, the colour of her hair, the way she... just everything. “I had to leave her,” he managed. “To protect her, you see. I cannot let her get too close to me.” He smiled bravely. “Not... not after last time... they will not kill another innocent young woman because of me.” Glancing at Malik, he saw a look of understanding and acquiesce in those dancing, dark brown eyes.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Malik absented himself from the hall, back into his office. A few moments later he returned, carrying a small flower-shaped pendant (he supposed it was a rose) on a long, thin gold chain. “I hope you won't find this presumptuous,” Malik began, “but, two years ago, I found this, outside the temple where she died.” He straightened the chain gently with his fingers. “Adha, I mean. I presume it fell from her during the struggle.” He held out the necklace to Altaïr. “I kept it from you as I felt it may upset you.” Biting his lip, he waited anxiously for the Assassin's unpredictable response.

Altaïr stood up and stalked over to the slightly scared Malik. Instead of feeling a blade through his neck or heart, as he had fully expected, a pair of strong arms embraced him, with a strange warmth. He reciprocated by squeezing Altaïr's torso with his remaining arm, still maintaining a careful grasp of the necklace. A tear fell from Altaïr's cheek, and landed on Malik's navy blue robe. Altaïr hoped he wouldn't notice, feeling silly for crying on his friend's shoulder.

“Thank you,” he husked, his voice choked with emotion. “I thank you Malik, from the bottom of my foolish heart.” He released the astonished bureau leader, who gently handed him the golden pendant.

With a renewed energy, Altaïr placed the precious jewellery into his pocket. “I have one more mission before I take care of what Al Mualim has tasked me with,” he announced, grabbing his cowl and pulling it back on. “I shall see you later, Malik,” He scrambled out of the skylight, and disappeared into the sunlight.

Absent-mindedly, Malik waved after him. “There goes a brave, brave man,” he mumbled to himself.

* * *

“Bel!” Altaïr called, reaching the beautiful woman's house. “I have something for you!” He pushed the door, but it was locked shut. Peering through the dirty window, he hoped to catch a glimpse of her. He couldn't make anything out. “Bel!” He tapped the window thrice. “Bel,” he said urgently as he knocked again. “Bel!” _Knock, knock, knock._

A door swung open behind him. “What the Hell are you doing, man?” a sharp, male voice snapped.

Altaïr spun round, startled. “What does it look like?” he answered impatiently to a sleepy-looking, wavy-haired man, who looked like he had just woken up, or been woken up. “I'm looking for...”

“Bella?” the man asked, with a yawn. “She's gone to work. I caught her as I got home. Now if you don't mind, I'm trying to sleep!”

“My apologies,” Altaïr said, desperately wanting to hug the man, but, slowly regaining control of his emotions again, merely nodding in respect. “I just need to speak to her urgently,” He headed off down the street, towards the tavern.

“Yeah, well, make it a little less urgent, next time, hear?” the grumpy neighbour called in retort, before retreating back into his house.

Coming to the tavern, he entered to find the usual clientele of soldiers, who were supposed to be on patrol, but preferred to waste their time drinking. He pulled his cowl down cautiously, lest they identify him. Scanning the bar, he saw a familiar face, Jeremiah, the barman who had chided him a couple of days ago for his public display with the woman he was looking for. A smile of recognition passed his face. “Ah, my dear boy,” he said as Altaïr approach the bar. “I was wondering if I would see you again. What can I get you?”

Altaïr hesitated for a moment as he scanned the bar. He could not see what he was looking for. “Is Bel here?” he asked quietly.

Jeremiah's expression became solemn at the mention of Bel's name. “Yes,” he said. “Such a dear, brave lady,” He smiled weakly. “She came in, determined to take her mind off things, but it's not that easy when you've lost your dear husband.”

Altaïr wondered how to react. He didn't want Jeremiah to get the wrong idea, leading him to think the mysterious stranger who had been rather physical with the widow nearly forty-eight hours previously, had something to do with Joe's death, as another outsider, Malik, had thought. “She came into work after that?” Altaïr said, sounding concerned. “Do... do you know where she went?” he asked.

“But of course, my dear boy,” Jeremiah said, kindly. “She's resting in the back salon.” He lifted a portion of the bar, inviting Altaïr through. “I am glad you came along; I was hoping you would. She could use some cheering up.” Altaïr could have sworn that Jeremiah had afforded the Assassin a cheeky wink. Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed for the precious necklace, that had once belonged to Adha.

“Bel,” Jeremiah called gently. “Someone to see you.”

Altaïr heard a sob. “Go away,” a muffled voice replied sharply. “I don't want to see anyone.”

“Aw, come on,” Jeremiah tried to maintain a level of cheeriness. “You'll want to see this person.”

“It's me,” hissed Altaïr. “Please, darling, let me come in.”

The wooden door opened swiftly, and a tousle-haired, red-eyed, yet still gorgeous Bel stood in the doorway.

“I'll, err... leave you two alone,” Jeremiah said with a smirk and a wink.

“Come in,” croaked Bel, as Altaïr closed the door firmly behind him. As soon as he did, Bel's loving arms enveloped him. “I was convinced,” she wept. “I was sure I would never see you again, darling!” She passionately kissed his lips as he embraced her, wanting nothing more than to melt into his arms.

“So was I,” Altaïr replied with sadness, “but then I found something I wanted to give you.” He pulled the pendant from his pocket.”

Bel's eyes widened. “My goodness,” she gasped, “it's beautiful!” She allowed Altaïr to slip it onto her neck. “I love it!” She gazed at it in adoration. “Promise me, darling,” she continued, stroking Altaïr's stubbly cheek, “promise me that you will never forget me, as long as you live.”

“Sweet one,” he whispered, stroking her neck, following the line of her new pendant down to her bosom, “I could never, ever forget someone as beautiful, brave and amazing as you.” He kissed her again, with passion and adoration. Breaking away, he removed his cowl, tossing it to the floor. “If I'm going to do it, I have to do it properly,” he announced.

Bel giggled. “Your whiskers tickle!” she remarked with delight as Altaïr's lips trailed across her jawline and neck. She sighed with pleasure. She knew she would have to make the most of this little, and unexpected, meeting with Altaïr, it could well be their last.

“You know,” Altaïr said, in between smooches, “When I said I loved you... I meant it... I meant every single word... every single time I said it,” He laid soft kisses upon her face, neck and chest, as he urgently unfastened his clothes. “And do you know what?” he continued hungrily, trailing his lips across Bel's chest as he impatiently pulled his robes off. “I love you, I love you, and I damn well love you!”

Tears in her eyes, Bel kissed her lover in return. “I damn well love you too,” she hissed passionately, leading him to the mattress they had first kissed, and more, upon. “Does this bring back memories?” she asked him, wickedly, slipping off her dress, watching as Altaïr willingly surrendered to the soft mattress.

“Let me get comfortable,” Altaïr said suggestively, slipping his boots and trousers off, teasingly leaving his shorts on, despite the fact they felt incredibly tight. They got tighter as he watched Bel remove her clingy dress. “Oh... that's just beautiful,” he panted, regarding Bel's nakedness. Her breasts, her peachy, fleshy bottom, her ribcage, just everything about her hypnotised him. He longed for her to take control of him, like they had done in the secret alleyway, but more so. He wanted her to use him to satisfy her every whim.

“You're a beautiful woman,” he breathed, gently stroking his hardened member through his shorts. “I am so ready for you.” He caught his breath. “I am yours,” he whispered.

Bel knelt down, and gently pulled at his shorts. Altaïr noticed she was naked, but for her new necklace. It was very pretty on her, it suited her.

“Ohh...” she sighed, gently grabbing Altaïr. “What do we have here?”

Her gentle touch was blissful. Altaïr closed his eyes and savoured every moment with the woman. This moment, he told himself, may never come again. “My darling, my darling,” he repeated, sighing, wishing the moment would never end. She let go of his hard, eager genitals, and began stroking her hands up his hips, his sides, reaching his shoulders. Kissing him delicately on his wet lips, she dared to bite a little on his lower lip.

Altaïr moaned in ecstasy, feeling Bel's teeth nibble upon the sensitive skin. He wanted to encircle her nakedness, pull her down, and kiss her passionately, but, remembering what he had done some time ago, she had his arms pinned to the soft ground. He was under her control, and must do as he was told. But she wasn't telling him anything, her lips were too busy exploring his stubbly chin, his soft neck, his firm chest... Her wet kisses tickled him, and he enjoyed the feeling of her skin on his, her unyielding, yet light touch keeping him pinned to the little makeshift bed.

Altaïr couldn't help but laugh as her tongue found its way around his navel, He drew up his knees to try and stop her; God, he was so sensitive there! Bel acted quickly, by putting her hands on his upper legs, pinning him to the mattress. Her fingertips traced his inner thighs, and that was when he knew what Bel was after. _Please, darling,_ he thought. _Please tell me you're going to..._

He sighed in bliss as her lips touched his manhood, and she slowly took it, little by little, into her mouth, her tongue passing against the tip enthusiastically. Altaïr couldn't help himself. “Oh, God, yes!” he hissed, gripping the sheets as tightly as he could, finding his feet resting on Bel's plump bottom. “More of that, please!” he begged, panting hard. “Oh God, more!” She felt her lips create a rapturous vacuum around the tip for a few seconds at a time, before her tongue played around the rest of his rigid manhood. Occasionally, she would leave it alone, tantalisingly for a few seconds, before taking one, then the other, of his testicles into her mouth, before turning her attention back to his waiting excitement.

Altaïr had the biggest grin on his face, his eyes wide with ecstasy and anticipation. “Oh my God, woman!” he cried. “You're amazing. Don't stop, don't stop!”

Bel momentarily stopped what she was doing to make sensual eye contact with him. She smiled and winked. “Do you want some more?” she asked, stroking the soft skin between his legs, behind his arousal.

“Oh, yeah!” Altaïr said, with an enthusiastic grin. He was starting to forget that this may be the last time he would be with Bel like this. She placed her lips back around him, sucking hard. It felt amazing, especially as she was playing with him as well. Her tongue swirling around the tip as her pretty lips played up and down. She moaned softly as she did it, making his skin tingle. Altaïr laughed softly, watching Bel. He must taste good, he thought, as he stroked Bel's pretty hair. “Oh, baby, you turn me on so much!”

It was true, and it wasn't too much longer before he felt that familiar feeling, his heart banging hard within his chest, a warmth spreading in waves from his genitals, an uncontrollable urge to scream out loud, though, knowing where he was, it came out as a soft grunt, as if he had just fallen from a seven-foot wall.

Bel finally took him out of her mouth, and swallowed hard. Altaïr blushed, aware he had just come quite a bit. Did she really take it all down? She knelt over Altaïr's naked body for a few seconds, before wrapping her arms around him. “I've been dying to do that to you,” she whispered. “I bet you loved that!”

Altaïr nodded dumbly, still unable to believe what Bel had just done to him. Everything about the woman was amazing. Her smile, her voice, her warm touch, the way she was in bed. She was insatiable! He reached between her legs, gently tickling her. But she grabbed his wrist and firmly pulled his arm away. “You don't have to,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. “Not if you don't want to.”

Altaïr put his hand back on Bel's thigh. “But I want to,” he growled seductively. “I want to pleasure you.” He let his fingers slip gently inside her; he was surprised at how wet she was. “You naughty girl,” he whispered. “Have you been thinking bad, bad thoughts?”

“You know I have,” Bel giggled, enjoying the attention. It was good just to mess around, and forget all the bad things in the world, just for a few hours or so; yesterday's heart-wrenching funeral, watching her beloved husband die, the fact that Altaïr had to leave her sooner rather than later... “Mmm, that's nice,” she sighed, feeling Altaïr's soft fingers touch her, rubbing her moist, sensitive parts.

Altaïr watched his woman as he played with her. It hurt him that after this was over, and it would have to finish sooner or later – although he wished he could stay here forever with Bel in his arms – he would have to leave her, possibly forever, but he, as well, tried not to think about it. He passionately kissed the girl he was fingering, wanting nothing more than to stay with her. “Is this okay?” he asked, almost dangerously. “Does that feel good?” He smiled to himself, feeling himself get aroused again. He laughed softly to himself.

Bel sighed softly. Frankly, it was bliss. Touching herself always felt good, especially when the pressure of life got to her, but when Altaïr did it for her, it was something else. Like everything was going to be okay. “Oh, yes,” she sighed. “That's nice.”

“How nice?” Altaïr asked, curiously. He needed to hear Bel talk dirty, tell him what she wanted him to do to her. That would get him nice and hard, so he could satisfy her.

“So good,” she panted. “So, so good...”

Altaïr laughed quietly to himself. _I'm going to need more than that,_ he thought. “What do you want to do to me?” he asked, sliding his index and middle finger deeper inside of her.

“I want to make you my husband,” Bel whispered simply, truthfully. “I want to always be yours, my darling.” She reached up and kissed him on the lips.

Altaïr was flattered and honoured, but also sad, as he knew it could never be like that. Furthermore, it wasn't quite the dirty talk he had anticipated. It had made him feel wanted, though, and merely that, had the desired effect. “My darling wife,” he replied playfully, “I am humbly yours.” Gently, he withdrew his fingers, and reached for his hardening member.

Bel giggled, looking up at the Assassin. If only he could take her for his wife, for real, and for ever. This would probably be the last chance to imagine, to pretend, that he was really, her life partner. She closed her eyes as he eased himself into her, gently moving against her, savouring the moment, perhaps hoping, like Bel was, that it might last for ever.

“Precious wife,” Altaïr whispered. “I love you.” He leaned down and kissed her adoringly.

Bel kissed the Assassin gently back in return. Inside, her heart was shattering to pieces. He would be the second man in as many days to leave her; the two loves of her life, gone, within a blink of an eye. It was so despairing to think that she may never love another man. Feeling tears come to her eyes, she reluctantly closed them. She didn't want Altaïr to see her cry. Not this time, not as he was making tender love to her.

“My darling,” Altaïr coaxed, noticing that Bel had shut her eyes. “Please don't cry.” He knew what she was attempting to hide from him. Their bond was too strong to conceal such things. “Besides,” he added mischievously, nuzzling her ear, making her giggle. “I know I can make you feel better.” He gently nibbled her earlobe. “There. There's a smile!”

Bel blinked open her watery eyes, and gazed back at Altaïr. “I shall love you until my dying day,” she pledged, her arms encircling her lover's strong torso. “For ever... and always.” She breathed heavily, feeling Altaïr deep inside her, the pleasure mounting, making her feel as if she were about to burst.

“Is that a promise?” asked Altaïr. “True, and faithful?” He kissed his woman upon her ample chest, tongue slithering gently around a hard nipple.

“I give you my word, dear heart,” she sighed, enjoying the sensation of everything the beautiful man was doing to her body. “I cannot deny my feelings for you. They will last for eternity.”

“If only... if only things had been different,” Altaïr lamented, stroking Bel's soft flesh with his calloused hands. “There might have been a chance for us. Alas, this is the way it is, and I must leave you after my task in Jerusalem is complete.”

Bel reached for Altaïr's neck, gently pushing him down to her, passionately kissing those full, wet lips. _Speak not,_ she thought. She did not want to be reminded of the future she faced; a future without her love.

Altaïr knelt back up, his hands now massaging Bel's shoulders, kneading her somewhat tense muscles. “Relax, my love,” he whispered tenderly. “My God, you're tense...”

_You would be too,_ Bel thought, _if the love of your life died before your very eyes, and the sweet man you are falling for has to go, who knows where, for who knows how long, or even if he'l come back._ She did not vocalise her thoughts; they were unfair. She was well aware that Altaïr, too, had experienced the violent loss of a loved one. She was not alone. Sighing dreamily, she started to feel that warm ache between her legs. “Oh, yes...” She closed her eyes, this time blissfully. “You marvellous man... that's so nice.” The feeling got stronger, stronger, almost unbearable. The feeling rippled around her body in a wave of pleasure. “Oh...” she  grunted, feeling her heart thudding in her chest, her breath coming short.

Altaïr bit his lip hard. He felt himself coming, too. He squeezed his eyes shut, determined not to moan loudly, the way he usually did; there were patrons in the bar and he did not want to give the wrong impression by making such distasteful sounds, lest they think, as Jeremiah had said, the place was a brothel. Finally, he unwillingly withdrew himself from Bel, and flopped down on the mattress, momentarily exhausted.

Bel reached for his hand. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she breathed. She glanced over at him, hopefully, his chest rapidly rising and falling, his right hand coyly, ironically, covering his genitals. “Please, stay with me a while longer.”

Altaïr turned to her, wrapping his right arm around her middle, his left about her shoulders. “Of course,” he whispered. “In an ideal world, I should never let you go.” His stubbly cheek rested upon her chest, tickling her soft skin. He wish he'd shaved before arriving at this tryst; he felt dirty and self-conscious. However, Bel seemed to like the feel of it; she was stroking his exposed cheek.

“My darling,” Bel lamented, “we can never truly have what we _want_ in this world. However, a wise man told me, through a little effort, what you require, what you need, will be yours.”

Altaïr gave her a sad look, his big, soulful brown eyes brimming with tears. He was just as soft as she!

“But I _need_ you,” Altaïr replied. “I need you in my life, my sweetness."

Bel giggled, and stroked that silken, dark brown hair she loved to touch. “Is that true?” she asked.

Altaïr nodded, getting that horrible feeling that he may burst into tears if he were to speak.

“You managed before you met me,” Bel said, matter-of-factly, “and you can manage again without me.” She touched Altaïr's hand, entwining her little fingers around his long, thick ones, squeezing them gently. “I know, because you are strong.”

Altaïr sniffed, feeling the salty tears burn his eyes. “No, I'm not,” he confessed, feeling the moisture dribble across the bridge of his nose. “I am weak, soft, despite what you see.”

Bel kissed the bridge of his nose, wiping away the tear with her lips. “No,” she whispered softly. “Anyone, anyone at all, who can carry on living after seeing the love of their life brutalised and killed, is _not_ weak.” She brushed away a second tear, dribbling onto his unshaven cheek. “In fact, you are anything but.” She considered the emotional man for a while. “What did you do to the people who hurt Adha, killed her?”

Altaïr sniffed and wped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I... went to find the bastards,” he said, in a shaky voice. “The Templars... wanted to wipe them out... kill them all!” he croaked. “And now, I am so close to finding him, and avenging her,” he finished passionately.

Bel smiled. “You see?” she smiled. “Only a truly brave, fearless man, who cares not for his own safety, would do that.” She shifted closer to him. “Someone like you,” she whispered into his ear.

“I suppose... you're right,” the Assassin replied hoarsely.

“That is why you must leave me,” Bel continued sadly. “I understand that now, and I wish you all the luck in the world, my darling.” She cuddled him close for a few seconds. “But for now,” she went on, “just hold me. I want to feel you next to me, if only for tonight.”

Altaïr knew she was right. “Of course, my darling,” he said, kissing her gently, “but tell me, who was the man who gave you those words of wisdom?”

Bel smiled, closing her eyes. “Joe told me,” she answered quietly. “My dear husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I did feel a bit awkward, even guilty, making these two have one last passionate session, especially after what happened to Bel, but hey, Assassins need love, too. Besides, he had to see her again to give her the necklace.
> 
> In the last chapter, we see that actions do have consequences...


	5. Epilogue

Many years later, Altaïr happened to be travelling through Jerusalem with his wife, Maria. His curiosity was potent, he had to know. Clicking to his horse, and pulling the reins to bring his steed to a halt, he motioned to the stable boy. Maria, who had grown large with child, gave her husband an indignant look. “What on Earth are you doing, my dear?” she asked. “The little one could arrive at any moment; we cannot waste any time. We must hurry back to Masayf.”

“I know that,” Altaïr conceded. “There is just something I must... check.” He wanted to track down dear Bella. Although he was blissfully happy with Maria, he had to know. Was Bel okay? Was she well, happy, still alive? He was a little afraid of finding out. It had been a long time, seven years or so? He handed the stable boy a handful of coins. “Please, look after the lady,” he said, before dashing to the city gates. As he went, he heard Maria sigh, and complain to the stable hand, “My husband is _so_ strange...”

Jerusalem had not changed that much. The buildings were the same, maybe a little scruffier, worn-looking market stalls, and crumbling masonry, broken balconies, and rotten wooden door frames. It was sad how some streets had fallen into disrepair. Then, he found the place he was looking for, mercifully looking the same as always. Nervously, he entered, a little afraid of the news he may receive.

The bar was the same, but there were a few less patrons than the old bar had previously been used to. The Assassin recognised the man straight away. A little plumper, perhaps, and with less hair that was a little lighter in colour, but there was no mistaking Jeremiah.

“Safety and peace, Jeremiah,” he greeted the man, who glanced at him through narrowed eyes for a few seconds. Then his eyes widened, as did his smile. “Altaïr!” he said brightly. “What brings you here?”

“Curiosity,” Altaïr admitted. “I am here to track down an old friend.”

Jeremiah smiled. “For an act of vengeance, perhaps?” he asked, marking the man's weaponry, the sword at his belt, crossbow strapped to his back, the concealed knife at his left wrist.

“Not at all,” Altaïr said brightly. “I was wondering...” He gulped, but the question had to be asked. “Is Bel still about these days?” he finished anxiously.

At the sound of Bel's name, Jeremiah smiled. “Of course, Sir, of course!” he enthused. She would probably be at home right about now, she has a son, did you know?”

Altaïr's dark eyes widened. “A son?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Jeremiah confirmed, “a son. I'm surprised you know nothing of him. She bore him some eight... maybe nine months after you left.”

Underneath his hood, Altaïr's jaw dropped, and his face burned. So... it was likely that the young man was his child. He had assumed that, being of a certain age, Bel had been... barren, for lack of better terminology, past the age of childbearing.

“Thank you for the information, kind sir,” Altaïr said, as steadily as he could. “I must go. I must see her, as soon as I can.” He turned on his heel, and ran out of the bar.

He did not stop running until he reached what he knew to be Bel's house. He hoped she still lived here; in his haste, he had not confirmed an address with Jeremiah, the knowledgeable barman. Still, he knocked upon the door. A woman answered.

Her skin was slightly wrinkled, her hair lighter, and longer, and she had become a little thinner, but there was no mistaking her. That smile, those sparkling eyes and, around her neck, was the fine gold chain and rose pendant, that had once belonged to Adha.

“Hello, my darling,” she whispered, with a smile. “You're late.”

“Bel, my love,” Altaïr croaked, embracing the woman, who cuddled him close in return.

“Where have you been?” Bel asked. “It's been seven years past.”

“Such a long time,” Altaïr mused. “You look well.”

“As do you,” Bel answered. “Please, do come in.”

Gratefully, Altaïr stepped over Bel's threshold, removing his cowl, exposing his hair, now greying a little at the temples. “How have you been?” he asked.

“Well,” Bel began, “Jeremiah and I got married a few years ago.” She smiled. “He was there to comfort me, after you left, and... we fell in love.” She smiled. “You know how it is.”

Altaïr was so glad she had ended up with a jovial, kind-hearted gentleman. They should have got together in the first place. Altaïr started to feel like he had got in the way.

“How about you?” asked Bel. “How has life treated you?” She smiled, staring at his left hand, noticing a gold band, which he wore on his middle finger; having lost his ring finger long ago.

“I am married now,” Altaïr replied, noticing that his ring had caught Bel's eye. He held up his hand with a proud smile. “Maria is her name. She is a good woman, and we are expecting our first child, any day now.”

Bel gave a smile; a slightly awkward smile, in fact, as if she knew something Altaïr didn't

Their small awkward silence was interrupted by a shout: “Mother, I finished the chores you asked of me!” A young child of about seven came dashing into the room, wrapping his arms protectively about her waist. The youngster had light caramel skin, and short black hair, which stuck rebelliously up, much like Altaïr's, but a cute, heart-shaped face, and a beautiful smile, like his mother's. The boy turned and looked at the stranger, who was surprised to see his eyes were very familiar.

“Who's that, Mother?” the little boy asked, staring at the man he had never seen before, hugging his mother tighter, as if for comfort. “Has he come to hurt us?” He eyed Altaïr's sword in awe.

“No, Joey,” Bel said tenderly. “He would never hurt us.”

Altaïr noticed that Bel's voice was cracking a little.

“But he has a sword, like the big, bad soldiers,” the little lad, Joey, lisped. “How do you know he's not here to hurt us?” He looked quizzically up at his mother, then back at the mysterious stranger.

“Because,” Bel was fighting back tears. “This is Altaïr. He's your father.” She took a breath. “Your real father, I mean. Remember I told you about him? Before you were born, he had to go away, for a long time, because he does important work for the safety of the people.”

“Oh...” Joey let go of his mother and took a step towards Altaïr, who crouched down to get a good look at the boy.

“Hello, Joey,” he said tenderly, holding out his hand. The little boy shook it, tentatively.

“Hello,” Joey said in reply.

Altaïr smiled. “You have my eyes,” he commented, and was in no doubt the child was his. “It's a good job you didn't inherit my nose!” He pinched Joey's own cute button nose between his index and middle finger. Joey giggled and reached to hug the Assassin. Slowly, uncertainly, Altair brought his arms around his child. He could not believe it; he had become a father a few days earlier than he thought! Overcome with emotion, he hugged little Joey tight, and tried to hide his face from Bel, as he was starting to cry. “My son,” he whispered croakilly, “my son...”

Altaïr was reluctant to break the hug, and it seemed Joey didn't want to let go either. They stood there for a good five minutes, just wrapped in each other’s arms. “If I'd known,” he whispered, “if I'd known about you, I would have stayed and taken care of your dear mother.” He kept his voice low to stop the tears from coming.

“My darling,” Bel cut in, “if you had known, you never would have met your good lady wife, and be blessed with another child.” She reached out for her son, who was still holding onto his father's hand.

Joey frowned at Altaïr. “Does that mean I'm getting a new brother or sister?” he asked inquisitively.

Altaïr bit his lip. He knew his two families would probably never meet. “Technically, yes. You will be having a half brother or sister,” he explained. “See, when I went away to work, I knew I would be gone for a long, long time, and I might not be able to return. I knew your mother was so pretty she would get another husband if I left for too long, so I married another beautiful lady, and she is going to have a baby in a few days. She is waiting outside of town for me because we are just on the way back to Masayf, where I come from, so she can give birth.”

Joey's eyes got wider and wider as Altaïr spoke. He was fascinated with this new gentleman, with his weapons, and curious uniform. “I wish you could stay Mi... Father,” Joey corrected himself. “You can help look after my mother.” He smiled hopefully.

“Joey,” Bel said sadly, “Father has a very important job to do, so he cannot stay.” She watched as her son pouted and ran to his father, who rumpled his hair.

“I'll come and visit, whenever I can,” Altaïr said earnestly. “It may not be often, but please, don't forget me.”

“I never did,” Bel said, fingering her necklace.

Altaïr reached into his pocket, and pulled out a gold coin. “Here,” he said, handing it to Joey. “This is for you. To make up for all the birthdays I missed. Keep it safe.” He crouched down, kissing the child on the top of his head. “I love you,” he whispered.

Joey smiled back at the Assassin. “Thank you, Father,” he said, squeezing the coin in his palm. “I love you too.” He hugged Altaïr in return.

Altaïr turned to Bel. “I must go now,” he said, in a regretful voice. “Maria is waiting for me.” He smiled, thinking of the little family he would soon have. He had missed out on so much with Joey. He turned to the young lad. “Be good, Joey, and look after your mother,” he said. “She is a very... very special lady.” He gave his son one last kiss, and straightened up.”

“Oh, Altaïr,” sniffed Bel emotionally. “I was convinced you'd never come back. I thought you had died.” She embraced him. “Thank you so much for coming to see us.” She kissed his cheek. “Just like you said you would.”

“I'm so glad I did,” he said, winking at his young son. “In any case, I must be on my way, now. Maria will be in bits if I don't hurry up.” He smiled, and walked to the door.

“Farewell, my brave soldier,” Bel whispered as Altaïr headed out of the door.

“Goodbye, Father!” called little Joey. “I'm so glad I met you!” He waved enthusiastically.

Altaïr took one fleeting look back at his former lover, and his son, giving a small wave as he did. It was heart-wrenching, but he knew that he had an even greater opportunity to be a proper father, with Maria and their very own child. He pulled his cowl back on to hide his tears. Joey was a fine young gentleman. He would be a great man, even greater and stronger than Altaïr.

_FIN_


End file.
